Agent Butler
by MuggleRavenclaw
Summary: In one of his (many) DC origin stories, Alfred is said to have been a secret agent. This oneshot tells the story of how he went from shooting people to caring for billionaires.


_I do not own nor do I make any profit from James Bond or DC Comics._

* * *

"…007? 007?... James?"

Hearing his first name spoken by the woman who so rarely did so broke James Bond out of his stupor. He blinked and raised his eyes from the name on the grave marker, only to see M looking at him with an expression he had never seen on her face before. It took him a few seconds, but finally he placed it. _Pity_. _Bloody hell, she pities me._

"Bond, I know you feel that this was your fault-"

He cut her off, his voice rough. "But it _was_. I was too slow. I couldn't get there in time. A few minor thugs kept me from getting to her. Don't you see, M? That has _never_ happened before. Her first field mission in years, and I let her die."

M pursed her lips. In all honesty, she couldn't argue with him. She had come here to offer some platitudes and help ease his guilt (a moping double-oh agent was practically useless), but the simple fact was that it _was_ his fault. The extraction plan had been drawn up specifically with his capabilities in mind, and he had not been able to deliver. By the time he made it to the extraction point to get her out, Moneypenny was dead.

Bond continued his monologue. "I'm getting too old for this, ma'am. I simply cannot perform at the level I used to. I've come back from bullets, bombs, knives, and fists, but I can't fight time. If I continue working as an agent, how many more will die because of me? I'm the oldest double-oh by a good decade, and I… I'm no longer the best."

Hearing his voice break with that last sentence solidified the decision for M. He had been slipping for some time, but this was the first time his slower reactions had actually caused the death of another operative. From the look of things, he wasn't going to bounce back from this one. It was time to retire Bond. "Unfortunately, I must agree with you. James Bond, it is time for you to be released from service by MI6. Please come to my office at 1300 hours tomorrow to finalize the procedure."

As M walked away, Bond remained kneeling in the dirt, tracing the name written in stone for the rest of time. _Eve Moneypenny. I'm so, so sorry, my dear._

As Bond walked through the door the next day, he tried and failed to suppress the flash of pain he felt at seeing the new secretary. She was a pretty young thing, and obviously recognized him, if the wideness of her eyes was anything to go by. "Mr... Mr. B-Bond. She has been expecting you, sir. P-please, go right in!" she practically squeaked.

Bond sighed. _So this stuttering floozy is replacing… her. _He tamped down his immediate anger, reflecting that, after all, it was entirely his fault. Besides, the girl _was_ only on her first day. Carefully hiding his grimace, Bond managed to force out a "Thank you." as he brushed past into M's main office.

Twenty minutes later, after silently signing an ungodly number of forms, waivers, and non-disclosure agreements, M spoke for the first time. "As you know, Bond, all agents have the opportunity to take on a new identity when they are discharged. In fact, it is encouraged, especially for those with a file as thick as yours. 'James Bond' might not be a terribly uncommon name, but it would make it quite a bit easier for any of your myriad enemies to find you if you continued to use it. Have you considered what you want to do next? This would affect what kind of name you might take."

"Yes ma'am, I have," Bond replied. "I want to go to America. England, as much as I love her, simply holds too many painful memories for me now. I will go to America and travel the country for a while; possibly for a few months, maybe even a few years. As far as employment opportunities go, all I know is that I will not be killing anyone else if I can help it." _I owe as much to Her memory. She never did like my high body count._

M looked thoughtful for a minute. "Very well, Bond. Perhaps we should give you a more unique name: one different from the rather bland 'James Bond' that your enemies will search for. The first name isn't terribly important - we can use Richard or Jason or Timothy or something - but the last name should be rather strange."

"If it can be done, I would like my name to be a tribute to Miss Moneypenny, ma'am. To be clear," Bond rushed, "I do not want to use her name, merely pattern mine after it. I have thought of several possibilities: Pence, Manypenny, and Pennyworth. Personally, I tend to favor the last. It fits your requirements, but is still a suitable tribute without staying too close to her name."

M was stunned, though it did not show through her granite visage. _He really loved her. All those years of flirting and banter, and I never realized that he actually loved her._ Inwardly berating herself for missing something so obvious, M favored the man with a rare (if slight) smile. "I believe that Pennyworth will work just fine. Well done, Bond. Do you have a preference for a first name?"

"None of those you mentioned earlier. They sound like young men looking for adventure and excitement. No, I would much prefer a more… stately name."

"Hmmm, I may have a few ideas…"

Once they had hammered out his new identity, including his official age, education, and apparent skill set, M squared her shoulders and looked the former 007 directly in the eye. "Agent Bond, you have the thanks of the entire nation for your years of service. You will never be fully aware of all the ways you helped your country, but know that Britain, not to mention the world, would be an entirely different place today without your positive influence. If you ever return to our shores, you will be welcomed with open arms. While I may never see you again, I hope you realize that you have been almost like a son to me. I will miss you, James."

The erstwhile agent fought to keep his face impassive. It would _not_ do to break down in tears right here in front of M. "Ma'am, I assure you that you have been the only mother I can remember having. I will return to England one day, but not for many years, I think. I will miss you as well." With that, the man formerly known as James Bond or Agent 007 rose and left the room, cradling the file that contained his new life. He did not pause or look back, refusing to even glance at the imposter sitting behind Moneypenny's desk as he passed by. Alfred Pennyworth left MI6 that day, never to return.

Seven months later, Alfred looked at the large manor house in front of him doubtfully. He had tired of travelling relatively quickly, and decided it was time to find a purpose to his life again. Driving a large truck was utterly boring. He had no desire to go into police work of any kind, and everything else was simply not fulfilling. Alfred needed a challenge. This attitude had led to his current location. He was certainly qualified to be a butler (he couldn't count the number of times he had gone undercover as hired help), but very few families in America were willing to hire one. Fortunately, those that _did _hire butlers tended to have very large houses. Hopefully, this would be enough of a challenge to satisfy him. With this in mind, Alfred knocked on the massive door.

The sound of footsteps approaching promptly led to the door being opened, revealing a rather pudgy, tired looking man. "Thank God, you must be my replacement. Pennyworth, is it? Well, best of luck to you, sir. You will need it, between caring for the house and the young Master. I'll show you to the drawing room, then I will be on my way. The family is eager to meet you."

Alfred silently followed the man through the house, noting the impressive furnishings and extremely expensive décor. So far, it seemed challenging enough. As they passed a sculpture of some sort in the hallway, Alfred couldn't help but notice the thin layer of dust. _It seems that my predecessor was a tad bit lax in his duties._ He thought critically. _No matter; I'll soon have the place whipped into shape._

As they entered the drawing room, Alfred's attention was immediately drawn to the youngest occupant. The boy seemed to be no more than three years old, with pitch black hair and startling blue eyes. The child looked up sleepily at the newcomer from his mother's arms, bestowing a happy smile on the entire room.

The man laughed, "Well, Mr. Pennyworth, you seem to have Bruce's approval. That, combined with your very impressive résumé, makes my decision very easy. I'm Thomas Wayne, and this is my wife Martha. Welcome to Wayne Manor, Mr. Pennyworth."

"Please, Master Wayne, call me Alfred."


End file.
